The Last Task
by Virodeil
Summary: For Teitho April 2010. For Crystal Green's 50th reviewer: yamiyugi23. Relinquishing the Eldar Wand is not so simple a chore; and not because Harry does not want to do so, too. Dumbledore still has one last bombshell to drop on our poor teen-hero...


**Genres: action, drama, humor**

**Rating: PG/K**

**Warning: The bleakness swings to humor suddenly. Be careful with your eating or drinking. I am not certain if the humorous part is good enough, but I had better warn you now, regardless.**

**Prologue**

"And then there's this."

I hold up the Elder Wand, and Ron and Hermione look at it with a reverence that, even in my befuddled and sleep-deprived state, I do not like to see.

"I don't want it," I explain.

"What?" squawk Ron. "Are you mental?" I throw him a half-hearted glare.

"I know it's powerful," I say wearily. "But I was happier with mine. So…"

I rummage in the pouch hung around my neck, and pull out the two halves of holly still just connected by the finest thread of phoenix feather. Hermione has said that they cannot be repaired, that the damage is too severe. All I know is that if this does not work, nothing will.

I lay the broken wand upon the headmaster's desk, touch it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and say, "Reparo."

As my wand reseals, red sparks fly out of its end. I know, then, that I have succeeded. I pick up the holly and phoenix wand and feel a sudden warmth in my fingers, as though wand and hand are rejoicing at their reunion. That makes me giddy with untold happiness too.

"I'm putting the Elder Wand," I tell Dumbledore, who is watching me with enormous affection and admiration, "back where it came from. It can stay there. If I die a natural death like Ignotus, its power will be broken, won't it? The previous master will never have been defeated. That'll be the end of it." Yes. I am sick of all the bloodshed and unnecessary violence, and the powerful wand would just tempt its next owner into doing just that.

But suddenly, on the word "the end of it," Dumbledore's serene face transforms into one of realisation, then sorrow and guilt. My stomach roils. What has he concealed again? What has he forgotten to say? What will fall upon me… again?

"You reject the Elder Wand," he says slowly, as if it were a horrible doom. I nod numbly. My friends freeze at my either side.

Dumbledore seems to gather himself, then finally sighs and continues, "There is a story – or rather, rumor – that goes with the legend of the Deathly Hallows, Harry, especially the Elder Wand. Your friend Ronald may know something about that."

On that, Ron sputters, "But that's a fairytale, Professor! Or do you mean that it's as real as the Deathly Hallows?" He stares wide-eyed between Dumbledore and me, with an expression torn between disbelief, jealousy, and awe. "All about the last burst of power transvering the master to and from a place that needs help in war?"

"Place… Help… War?" I wake up from my brief stupor and chime in just as falteringly. Hermione grasps my hand, hard. Ron does the same a moment after.

But, as if knowing what we are doing, Dumbledore again says, "Yes, Ronald, and the only person who can go there and back again is the master of the Elder Wand. I had a theory, though, that if the master so wishes, he or she can bring a companion… to live there forever."

A heavy, horrible silence descends among us. No one dares to speak. As for myself, I am too full of indignation and incredulity to say anything anymore.

**Part 1**

A blast of white light filled the clearing, startling Elves, horses and trees. The trees retreated, bringing the horses with them; but the Elves sprang into full alertness and jumped into the trees, drawing their bows and fitting arrows into them. Two were left on the forest's floor, their twin knives gleaming keenly in each hand.

A young man, a Secondborn, whose vivid-green eyes looked far older than his physical age, stood in the middle of the clearing, swathed in black sturdy traveling attire. A pale smooth stick was clutchd loosely in one hand, while the other rested on the hilt of a sheethed sword. He appeared to be wary, but somehow helpless and reluctant, as if he had been dragged there without his full consent and ample preparation. He looked around at the wall of trees, then at the two Elves before him, but said nothing. He seemed to be taking their forms in, calmly and fearlessly, not wavering even when his eyes alit on their ready knives.

"Who are you?" Legolas demanded when several long, tense moments had lapsed. He had never encountered any Secondborn as composed as this stranger except the Northern Rangers. But this person seemed not to be from that company. He was ruffled now by this dangerous enigma, as he had seldom before.

"He poses no threat, little brother. Calm down," Lórgalad, his eldest brother, soothed. "He is powerful, I can sense it, but so is a wounded boar." He sent a small, fleeting smile to Legolas, sharing a private joke with him. But the effort was not entirely successful. Legolas' seemingly-expressionless face hid a scowl beneath the mask, and it could be easily found by those who knew him well. This problem had to end now… He was the crown prince. He had to decide on the fate of the stranger in place of their father the King of Greenwood the Great.

But they were journeying to Imladris to attend an important council, and going back with the Man to the Halls seemed like a ludicrous idea. They had to take him with them, then, and prayed that he would pose no threat to them or to their hosts in Imladris. Lord Elrond would know what to do with him.

Decision reached, he beckoned at his youngest brother with a glance, then sheathed his knives. Legolas' eyebrows popped up despite his restraint. Lórgalad attempted to smother his laughter before it erupted.

"Come, stranger, tell us who are you and why are you here," he said then, with his hands lifted, palms out, in a universal gesture of peace and truce.

The Man opened his mouth, uncertainly, as if he was not sure if he was able to talk. But talk he did, although haltingly and seeming to be amazed at his own capability. "My name is Tinwar. I come from… far away. Where is this?"

`Where is this?`

Legolas, ever the impetuous one, quickly retorted before his brother could speak. "How did you come? How would you arrive here if you did not know your destination before you… set out?"

The rest of the sentence hung in the tense air: "If appearing in a blinding white light implied the undertaking of any journey, that is."

Lórgalad took a proverbial deep breath. Why had Adar assigned him to go with Legolas? Legolas was good for hunting trips and guarding missions, but not for diplomacy or subtlety. But how to tell his little brother to shut up now? The milk had been spilled and could not be taken back.

He stared hard at the Man. "Please forgive my brother, Tinwar," he said smoothly. He could feel Legolas' eyes boring into the side of his face but ignored it. "Please join us. We would like to hear much from you. These are dark times. Trust cannot be lightly earned." `Once you break it, you will not be able to mend it.`

The Man – Tinwar – seemed to catch the underlying message in his words, just like when Legolas had spoken. Lórgalad restrained a frown. This stranger seemed to have never seen an Elf before, but knew their subtle ways well. The enigma became more and more intriguing by the moment.

His curiosity peaked and threatened to explode when the Man, belting his stick after waving vaguely about himself with it, gestured with his hands at the treetops. "Watchers," he said, with inquiry in his eyes. But his contingent were well-hidden! He would not have known that there were Elves in the trees, even, if he could not sense the trees' joy on hosting the Firstborn and had not seen them climb the trees himself.

With his eyes never leaving the tired, haunted green orbs of the Man, he whistled two sharp songbird notes. `come down and join me.`

His men obeyed. They even put away their bows and knives. But he knew that those weapons would be in their hands and fired towards the stranger should Tinwar do something offensive and harmful to their princes. He had handpicked them himself for this expedition, choosing only the most agile and stealthy Lindar from the warrior ranks.

They surrounded Tinwar, but the Man seemed unperturbed. They marched briskly along the barely-imperceptible path to their next campsite, and there they formed a circle around Tinwar. Lórgalad bade him to sit, while Legolas oversaw the making of the camp – a lighter chore, superficially. There were no horses with them, because the Lindar were uncomfortable riding the animals, and both princes refused to ride while their entourage ran on foot. They traveled light too, foraging for berries and game while they were still in the forest like now and sustaining on lembas when crossing the Misty Mountains. Well, if Lórgalad must choose between helping to pick up berries and interrogating Tinwar, he would choose the latter still.

"How did you come?" he asked while proffering the Man his wineskin, seeing that Tinwar brought neither a pack, a sachel, nor a pouch for holding sustenance with him; another thing to ponder about.

The Man held out the pale, polished stick. Lórgalad's eyes widened involuntarily. A stick? But Tinwar did not explain further, and he did not wish to receive more bewildering surprises too if he could, so he asked nothing more on the subject. Instead, he skipped to another – related – matter. "Why did you come?"

Tinwar just held up the stick higher, as if saying, "This is why I came here."

More baffled and perturbed, Lórgalad gazed deep into the Man's eyes again, trying to find humor or an ulterior motif in the depths of those shadowed green pools. But he found discontentment, fear, weariness and sorrow instead, and the mortal did not flinch or look away during the examination, as those traders from Laketown usually did under such scrutiny.

"Who are you? Why do you speak little?" he asked then, in a whisper, his words losing their edge. He had just realized that Tinwar was fairly young, like an Elf of fifty, but had endured so much. There was no darkness in his soul, although it was burdened from trying to fight a similar darkness they all knew.

The youth smiled sadly, in a manner of one much older than he was. "I… cannot speak this language. Not well," he said.

"Westron?" Lórgalad offered. He shook his head.

"No language of… this place," he affirmed. "I am not from here. I was asked to help here."

"By the Powers?" Lórgalad sucked his breath, surprised and excited. But then he remembered the pale smooth stick, and his high hope crashed down just as suddenly as it had risen. He eyed the stick, which was still balanced on Tinwar's upturned palm, with obvious doubt.

Tinwar looked at him long and deep, returning his earlier scrutiny. He tried not to flinch in surprise or fidget with discomfort. He was an Elf! This was just a Mannish youth.

But still, the youth's stare unnerved him.

But his enduring the vivid gaze paid off. Tinwar was willing to share his tales with him, on his word that he would tell nobody about them. He just wished he could understand at least a sliver of it… It was like a madman's imagining, outrageous and ludicrous. Tinwar's eyes were sincere and honest, though, so he had no choice other than to believe the Man.

They talked long into the night, unable to restrain their curiosity of each other, and the next day they walked together side by side. Legolas and the rest of their contingent stared suspiciously at Tinwar, expecting solcery being put on their crown prince, but the youth paid no heed to them, and Lórgalad looked just like his usual self .

Part 2

The Mannish youth was always silent. He was the source of wary curiosity in Imladris. He wore all black as if mourning, but his rare smile was genuine, although his even rarer laughter was always tinged with the weight of sadness. He did not raise his voice in the council Elrond held some time after the Silvan Elves and their princes arrived there, but his eyes gleamed with resigned recognision on the tale of the Rings and when the One Ring was brought out for the assembly's inspection. He did not say that he would accompany the Fellowship of the Ring to Mordor, but nonetheless he stood ready when the Nine departed, and tailed them like a watchful shadow. Always quiet, always somber, but always kind also – especially to the hobbits.

Legolas was intrigued. No, he was highly curious. But his eldest brother, before riding home to their father, had warned him against pestering Tinwar about his past. It felt like so much injustice now that the enigma was so close at hand. Trying to adhere to the command, he harassed the Dwarf instead. It was funner, anyway, since Gimli was not at all taciturn, and there had been a long feud between Elves and Dwarves.

Besides, it made Tinwar smile; although, he admitted, it was a rather fondly exasperated smile, like Lórgalad often gave him. Hmm. Who was the younger, now?

Lórgalad had known what Tinwar's omnipresent pale-smooth wooden stick was for, and now Legolas did – a bit, at least. Mithrandir seemed to know more about it, and perhaps even more than his brother, but, as usual, the Wizard refused to say anything on the subject, claiming that it was Tinwar's right to let anyone know; just what Lórgalad had done and said. He witnessed the youth wielding it, several times, even while the others in the company did not. It was like the shorter version of Mithrandir's ornate staff… but so much scarier. He had seen it produce sword-cuts on the necks of the wargs which ambushed them near Caradhras a week after their departure from Imladris; he had seen it ignite fire and shield them from snow and hale, and he had drunk the fresh water pouring forth from its end – as if a pitcher – during their journey through Moria.

However, the power of the stick had not saved Mithrandir from his fall.

He could not fault Tinwar, he guessed. And besides, he did not have the heart to. The youth looked so broken after Mithrandir had fallen into the casm just before the East Gates of Moria, perhaps blaming himself for the fellow Wizard's demise. But it was as if he had endured such a horrible experience more than once before…

If possible, Tinwar was even more silent and reclusive afterwards. He did follow the crippled Fellowship past Lothlórien and endured all the victories and defeats they suffered—

The Rohirrim in Helm's Deep did not know whence the weird things coming to shield them as they fought had come. Stout brick walls and choking vines impeded the orcs and Dúnlandings. The wicked black-fletched arrows became roses whose fragrance choked the orcs and surprised the Wildmen into dumb inaction. The lightnings cleverly struck down only orcs. The stable ground suddenly gaped with holes and small landslides which brought the orcs in and trapped them there. A ball of raw light drove back the Wildmen and slaughtered the orcs score by score. The cold rain turned into scolding water just above the right people…

Tinwar grinned savagely behind his mug of ale when Théoden praised the unknown kind Wizard who had helped them won the battle, and wished said Wizard would come up now so that he could thank him properly. Only Legolas caught the look, and he cringed with sudden unnerved fear. But Tinwar said nothing to anyone, not even when Merry and Pippin insisted that he had been the hero of the battle, even more than returned Mithrandir and the forest which suddenly swarmed the dike come morning.

Similar instances repeated themselves in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and later in the Battle before the Black Gates. Tinwar was a heartless warrior, then, and always unseen until the fight ended. Then he would look as if he had not fought, although his grimness and exhaustion betrayed the notion sometimes.

Strangely, the Youth did not embark on the ship sailing to the Undying Lands with the Ringbearers, although Lady Galadriel had said that he would be welcomed warmly there should he come. He became a wanderer, combing Middle-Earth from west to east with the avidness and diligence of someone saying farewell to his homeland. Legolas knew, and noted it, because he often accompanied the youth in his wanderings, sometimes together with Gimli or Faramir, or the twins Eladan and Elrohir.

One day, though, the six of them travelled together. And their first morning was a chaos.

The smell of cooked game meat and simmering vegetable stew woke the Elves, one Dwarf and one Man from their sleep. The last watch was Tinwar's, and he was a great cook even when they were camping.

That last thought brought the five quickly to their feet and racing to the nearby stream to wash sleep from their face and their hands in anticipation of a good breakfast.

There were apples in a basket they had traded yesterday in a homestead. Now the basket, its content still nearly full from yesterday's dinner, sat by the campfire on which a tea kettle and a steaming pot perched. Eladan reached into the basket and took an apple, eagerly biting into it. His twin was second, followed by Gimli. Legolas refused to partake in the meal, thinking that he would save his apetite for the stew instead.

A second later, Eladan opened his mouth to comment to his brother, and what came out of his mouth was the voice of an elleth. His friends, barring Tinwar, roared in laughter on his bemused and indignant look. But then Gimli's chortling became barking, and he stopped laughing. Before anyone could wonder about it, Elrohir coughed, and what came out was a horse's snort. Their eyes, accusing and agrevated, swiveled to Legolas, whose face was red and whose eyes were damp with tears of laughter. The half-Sinda raised his hands in denial.

Gimli swotted him with an apple. Before Legolas could protest, Tinwar tossed the second apple to his lap and smiled in amusement. The youth himself was bleeting like a sheep even as he crunched on his own apple. Faramir, curious, picked one of the apples and bit into it, just when Legolas did the same.

Faramir meowed, and Legolas's voice became as deep and rough as a Dwarf's.

Gimli burst into a noisy bout of doggish laughter. Legolas was nearly in tears.

But then the Dwarf looked down, and found that his clothes had transformed into that of a female. He yelped and whined in dismay. Legolas laughed.

Eladan, grumbling in his high-pitch voice, stood up and muttered about rolling his bedding. He tried, at least. He ended up falling on his bottom back to the grass each time, because his legs closed in and refused to bend each time he was about to rise up. When at last he managed to stand up, he spent a time hopping awkwardly around the camp to regain his balance.

Elrohir danced in his brother's wake, gesturing wildly that there was something crawling and slithering along his body, although nobody saw anything there. They made a weird but hilarious duo, and the rest of them laughed in their respective voices. Even Tinwar did, freely and merrily – as merry as a sheep could be – and there was no sadness in it this time.

Deciding to try to save the bedrolls from the twins' trampling feet, Legolas crawled to his first and tried to rebundle it. He squeaked when the collection of sewn blankets leapt away from his hands and molded itself into a shape reminiscent of a duck, complete with its sound. It escaped him and hopped in Elrohir's wake as if a duckling following its mother. The second bedroll which Legolas next tried to pack turned into a turtle, and it clambered up Eladan from behind. The elder of the twins let out an impressive girlish shriek, while he tried to see what was crawling along the back of his legs and avoiding a collision with the jigging Elrohir at the same time.

The third, and Legolas produced a mouse which persistently attempted to snuggle into Gimli's lap. The Dwarf tumbled to his side in his haste to avoid the stuff rodent, tripping on his skirts and tangling in them while the mouse happily hopped along his body and mimicked Elrohir's lively dancing. The fourth, and Faramir conversed with a stuff cat which kept trying to perch on his head. The Gondorian lost, and the cat crouched on his head as if it were its throne, with its tail swaying, sweeping across Faramir's face every few seconds and making him sneeze – a cattish sneeze. He let out a threatening cattish snarl, but the animated thing on his head did not cease, and at last he bit the tail while it passed, surprising the cat; and himself, when it retaliated by nosing at his ticklish spots reachable from its post. He joined Elrohir in the Half-Elf's mad dance.

The last two bedrolls joined with an empty sack – used to house the basket of apples – and turned into a large hound. It playfully chased the panicking Legolas and forcing him to run laps while skipping and dodging and ducking to avoid its muzzle and licking tongue. He despised overzealous hounds.

Tinwar, bleeting smugly, took out the pot of stew and the tea kettle out from the fire and ladelled a spoon full of the stew for himself. But he had not seen that Eladan had managed to sprinkle something into the bowl when he was ladelling out the stew, succeeding to stop for a moment without fear of colliding with his brother, Legolas and Faramir. Just when he finished the stew, his skin sprung alive with itchiness, even though there were no visible marks on it. He squeaked in surprise and dismay, the sound funny in the throat of a sheep and sending his friends into peals of laughter. He ended up dancing on the spot, trying to erase the itch, beside the girlish Gimli who were grappling without avail with the stuff mouse.

Everything only went back to normal fifteen minutes later. By then, the camp had been trampled flat as if a great scuffle had occurred there, the stew and meat had cooled considerably, and the company were thoroughly exhausted with jigging – or hopping – and laughing. Tinwar was the last to recuperate, after Eladan – grudgingly – gave him the antidote to the herb he had snuck into the youth's stew. The sack and bedrolls had returned into harmless piles of cloth, if rumpled and a bit dirty.

Gimli accused the Elves for working their solcery on the chaos that had just passed. Legolas, just as quickly, retorted that perhaps the Dwarves had tricks to accomplish just the same. But Faramir and the Half-Elven twins were staring suspiciously at the serene Tinwar, who regarded the bickering Elf and Dwarf with twinkling green eyes – as clear and vivid as emeralds under the sunlight, for once. All the clues clicked in their minds, and they gaped with shocked incredulity, their mouths and eyes round on their aristocratic faces. Sensing the shock, Legolas and Gimli stopped arguing and asked them, but they just pointed to the cheery-looking, deceptively innocent Tinwar, and in almost no time they mimicked the rest of the company.

The youth threw back his head and let out a hearty, booming laugh. Tears of laughter ran down his tomato-red face, and his eyes sparkled into life with them.

Dumbstruck Dwarves were so funny, and dumbstruck Elves and noble Men too, he choked between chortling peals.

Despite their momentary peevishness, the five agreed that that morning was one of the best mornings in their lives. But they never told Tinwar that, not even when he bade them farewell and took his leave. They did not have to. He knew.

End Notes:

Well. I guess "Tinwar" would be the last to accuse in their minds, given how they had witnessed him so grim and all. I do not know if I managed to portray their surprise. It was hard! I am sorry if I did not manage to make the prank funny enough too. I had just emerged from the grim parts, and my mood only lightened when I was already into it. Writing humor always challenges me; just as much as writing horror does. :rueful: I hope you liked it nonetheless. :uncertain:

I wanted to complete it with an epilogue, but I was unable to fit it in, not with my inspiration – and the time, too – running out. Sorry, people. I hope this was enough? Well, if not, you could send your protest (and suggestions, and critiques, etc) to me once the voting period ends and I post this in and Lord of the Rings FanFiction. :)


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